


An Ode to His Pretty Mouth

by Stasia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-20
Updated: 2011-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 15:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stasia/pseuds/Stasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry gets a poem in the mail and has no idea who sent it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ode to His Pretty Mouth

_An Ode to His Pretty Mouth_

 _When last I saw, upon your lovely face,  
A smile as silver as the waning moon  
I felt my soul rise up to a bright space,  
Felt heat, as in the summer sun at noon.  
Your smile, seen faint in the remaining light—  
The miser moon spending its last sickle—  
Cut bladelike through my heart with one sharp shove  
That overwhelmed that poor blind thing with sight  
Of ageless beauty, warm, searing and fickle;  
I never thought my soul could fill with love._

 

~*~

 

Harry re-read the note in his hands a third time, in the vain hope that it would make more sense.

It was poetry. Someone had sent him poetry. He’d been sitting here, minding his own business—well, technically, since he worked for Gringott’s, he was minding someone else’s business, but he didn’t think that really signified in this situation. Anyway, minding his own business, and some aggressive post crow had just come up and delivered him a note full of poetry.

If the note hadn’t been addressed to “My Dearest Harry”, he’d have thought it was a misdelivery. He eyed the crow, which was still puttering around his desk, poking at things with its beak and admiring its reflection in the shards of the gazing ball that Harry had dropped while de-hexing that week. He’d never seen a post crow before, and he had no idea who would use a crow when owls were so much stronger.

“Crow,” he said, experimentally. “Crow, who sent me this?” He felt silly addressing an animal, but really, you never knew. It could be…he sucked in a breath. Feeling his eyes narrow, he glared at the creature, which now had its head fully all the way inside his largest desk drawer. “Fred? George?” he asked in a dark tone. “If this is from you, I hope you know I’ll get back at you for it.”

The crow paid no attention to him, its attention locked on something at the very back of the drawer it was investigating. With a sudden jerk it yanked whatever had caught its eye. Harry laughed as it fell over backwards. The crow shot him a baleful look, and snapped up something gold that had tumbled from its beak when it fell.

“Hey!” Harry yelled. “That’s mine. I’ve been looking for that.” He reached down to pull the item back, when the crow flapped its dark wings and leapt into the air. It circled his head for a moment, glaring at him first out of one eye, then the other, and finally swept out of the room and into the hall. Harry, bellowing, charged after it. He gave up at his door, and chuckled hopelessly as he saw Biggins, his office-mate, dodge out of the crow’s way at the other end of the hall.

That evening, at his weekly dinner with Ron and Hermione, (who had progressed far enough into their relationship, Harry thought, to be all one word by now; RonandHermione was sort of how he thought of them.) he brought out the note.

Predictably, Ron laughed while Hermione studied it closely. She counted under her breath for a moment, then nodded.

“It’s an ode,” she said. “See, ten lines and the correct rhyming structure. Where did you get this?”

Harry blushed. “In the post.” Ron chuckled again. Harry glared at him. “No, it’s got to be from someone who knows me. Gringott’s put charms on the mail delivery because of that thing with the knickers when I was hired.”

Hermione reached across the table and served herself some more salad. “Well, it’s nice, as far as such things go, but who’d send you poetry?”

Harry transferred his glare to her. “What, you think I can’t appreciate poetry?” He knew he was being petulant, but for some reason he felt protective about this. He wasn’t as stupid as everyone thought. With a sigh, he picked the poem back up. “I don’t know who sent it. I can’t identify the handwriting.”

Ron took it from him and turned it over. Spluttering into laughter, he said, “My Dearest Harry? Did you ask the twins about this?”

Hermione tutted. “Ron, you’d think, after all this time, you’d remember that Gringott’s has blocked the twins from owling anything to their offices. They never did forgive the boys for the fireworks they sent for the Anniversary.” She picked the parchment up. “It’s torn, look.” Harry leaned closer. “I think there was more to it, but this was the only part sent.” She ran a finger over the ink. “Harry, do you want me to bring this to the office to check it out? I can do a lot more there to figure out who it’s from.”

“Isn’t there anything you can do now?” Harry didn’t know why, but he didn’t want to let the poem out of his sight. It felt like the author was speaking directly to him, cared about him.

Hermione looked at him steadily for a minute and then leaned back. “Of course there is. I can run through some basic spells, but Harry, you know that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has much better equipment than I keep here at home.”

Harry rubbed his fingers over the edge of the table. “Can’t we just use what we have now and I’ll bring it in later?”

~*~

Severus groaned as the morning light hit him in the nose. He pried his eyes open-then closed them quickly. Stumbling to his feet, he staggered from the living room to the loo, hoping that if he just ignored the slithery, liquid feel of his intestines, he wouldn’t actually vomit.

His hopes were in vain. He did manage to make it all the way to the toilet, though, and he thought he might as well count his blessings. Such as they were.

After a lengthy session in the loo, spent worshipping at various watery temples, he re-entered the living room to survey the damage.

The bright sunlight falling in heavy beams across the room showed a space lined with books and full of comfortable furniture. The desk and its matching chair were of a blond wood, and the various upholstered pieces scattered around the rest of the room were a soft brown. Severus was grateful again for the difference between his current situation and his life at Hogwarts. He’d spent too long underground and in the dark to surround himself with darkness any longer.

Currently, his room was paler than usual. He sighed deeply, seeing the drifts of shredded of parchment decorating the floor. He moved about, gathering up the bits of parchment and tossing them into the fireplace. As he passed it the first time, he saw that apparently he’d burned some of the parchment the night before. Shaking his head and wishing that he’d learn not to get drunk like this, he pointed his wand at the fireplace and cast, “ _Incendio._ ”

Once the room was clear, he moved to his desk. His desk held larger pieces of parchment, and he winced as he looked at the bits of poetry on them.

He tried to remember what had prompted the latest binge, and idly organised the parchment as he thought. Right, it had been that dreadful shopping trip. He’d put off shopping for as long as possible, but he was completely out of some of the more volatile ingredients and some basic staples. Diagon Alley had been crowded; since leaving teaching behind, Severus had forgotten to keep track of the school year.

Screaming, laughing, and running hordes of barbarian children had filled the Alley, making it impossible to get to the shops he needed without suffering the temptation to hex every single person he saw. After fighting his way into Slug and Jiggers, and then out again with a large parcel in a bag, he tried to storm through the people to get to Knockturn. He’d almost made it; there were only two shops between him and his goal, when the crowd parted and he saw _him_ , standing on the broad white steps of Gringott’s. He was talking to a tall man, gesturing wildly. Suddenly, he ran his fingers through his hair, making it even messier than usual.

Severus couldn’t move, staring at him. He was taller, and his face wasn’t quite so gaunt anymore. Severus closed his eyes against a rush of memories, and turned down into the welcoming dark of Knockturn.

He’d bought a large bottle of imported Icevodka instead of the milk and bread he’d been intending to buy.

Severus rubbed his eyes and leaned back in the desk chair. That certainly explained why he had stayed up until three in the morning, getting drunk and writing atrocious poetry. He could only thank whatever gods there might be that he hadn’t actually posted any of it.

~*~

Harry found himself getting the poem out several times a day to read it. After two weeks, he had to re-copy it onto another piece of parchment so that his folding and unfolding didn’t tear right through the anonymous author’s words.

Hermione hadn’t been able to find anything much out about the person who’d written the poem. Whoever it was, he bought parchment from Scribbulus’ Everchanging Inks, just like everyone else, and used homemade black ink. There weren’t any other identifying marks or spells or anything on the parchment. Just knowing that the writer made ink at home wasn’t enough to help him figure anything out.

He kind of liked the idea of a truly anonymous secret admirer. It made such a change from the usual very public secret admirers he got. Rubbing the back of his neck, he tried not to think about the last guy who thought dating The Man Who Killed You Know Who (and why did everyone persist in calling him that? You’d think that no one else helped.) would be fun. He’d actually had to break up with the guy out on the front steps of Gringott’s itself before he’d gotten the jerk to leave him alone.

He was beginning to think that he shouldn’t date anyway. He knew he kept comparing everyone he met to the person who’d been helping them during that last frantic year; he had fought off increasingly romantic daydreams in which he saw someone in the street or in a crowded room and ‘just knew’ that this, _this_ was the person he’d been waiting for, the person who had saved him so many times. No real person could compete with that. He read through the poem again, his fingers curling around the parchment. Well, maybe some person could come close…

Stuffing the note back into his pocket, he stood up and rubbed his chest. That pain just wouldn’t go away. Wishing he knew why his chest hurt so much, he started off to the Spell Removal Room for his next assignment. He did like the constant challenge of working with the goblins, and at first it had been enough for him; he’d been so busy at work that he hadn’t noticed that he was lonely. Getting the Poem had made him realise just how lonely he had become. With a sigh, he bent over the large stone flower that the goblins had found buried in the foundation of a building and started working.

Two months later, Harry still hadn’t figured out who sent him the poem. He also hadn’t received any more poetry in the mail. He had, however, memorised the whole thing.

He stood in front of his mirror, trying hopelessly to make his hair less like a stack of windblown straw. He was supposed to be this important person and he couldn’t even make his hair lay flat. Finally giving up, he tugged his formal robes back into place and Apparated to the Ministry.

He was one of the guests of honour at the Annual Holiday Charity Extravaganza and Silent Auction. He’d donated one thousand galleons to the War Orphans Fund, and was expected to make a good showing. Plus, his boss Claspinch wanted him there to discuss Gringott’s business with the Minister. Harry only hoped Claspinch knew how badly he disliked Scrimgeour.

At least the food will be good, Harry thought to himself as he wandered around the large room set aside to display the donated items being auctioned off. There was a week in a villa in Italy, near a small wizarding village. The lowest bid for that was one hundred Galleons. Someone had donated a full case of Australian Bundaberg Rum. Harry didn’t even want to look at the bidding on that.  
“Harry!”

He turned to see Hermione waving at him from behind Ron’s friendly bulk. Ron grinned at him, then peeled off to head for the buffet tables. As Hermione came up to Harry, he saw her shaking her head at her husband.

“You’d think he never eats,” she laughed. She gave Harry a huge hug. “Did you donate anything?” Her eyes fell on the nearest table and she blanched. Harry turned to see what had caused her expression and chuckled.

“Yeah, that’s pretty wild, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “No, I mean—yes, I donated something, but it was just money. I don’t really have anything else to donate.”

Hermione shot him a wicked glance. “You could always donate a pair of your—“ she broke off, laughing at his expression. “Harry, I know you’re not going to donate anything personal.” As they watched, a young wizard strolled past the table they were near, glanced down, and turned an amazing shade of pink. He glanced from side to side, then bent down and signed his name on the bidding sheet.

Harry and Hermione watched him scurry off and then turned to each other, matching grins on their faces. As one, they moved forward and checked the list. Sheldon Pymm had just bid 25 Galleons for a pair of Gilderoy Lockhart’s pants.  
Their laughter followed them as they crossed the room to find Ron.

“Well,” Harry said, “I don’t know why I’m here.” He took another bite of shrimp. “I mean, I know what Claspinch thinks I’m here for, but really, I hate these things.”

Ron glanced around at the full room. “I think he just wants you to be seen, Harry. You know, Man Who Killed, and all that. I’m only here for the food, though.” Hermione shot him a dark look. “Not, uh, that the food I get normally isn’t good,” he said quickly.

Harry chuckled. “Yeah, but I’ve got Dobby. My food is always—“ he stopped short. “What’s he doing here?”

Ron and Hermione turned to see who he was looking at. A tall, slender figure had just come through the door and was now standing uncertainly against the wall.

“Oh, it’s Severus!” Hermione started to stand and wave him over. Harry grabbed her arm and pulled her back down into her seat.

“What’re you doing that for?” He looked over curiously at Ron, who didn’t seem upset at seeing Snape here. Hermione snatched her arm back and glared at him.

“He’s been working with me on that Albrecht case, you know that. I don’t know why you haven’t got over that old stuff with him, anyway. He’s been acquitted and you know that he helps the Aurors out all the time.” She waved at Snape to get his attention and beckoned him over.

“He does?” Harry asked, watching as an invisible bubble surrounded Snape’s silent form. “How’s that working for you?”

Hermione smiled at him. “He’s quite… well, all right. He’s right stroppy most of the time, but his information is always correct.”

Ron smirked. “And now we know why she likes him. One know-it-all to another.” He leaned back in his chair, pushing away his plate. “Wanna leave the two bookworms alone and see if we can find something to bid on?” He looked back and forth between Harry and Hermione, who’d burst into giggles. “What’s this?”

Harry shoved his chair back and grabbed Ron’s arm. “Come on, you’ve got to see this.” He smiled down at Hermione, then drew in a breath as Snape reached the table. Had he always been that tall? He tilted his head back and back until he could look the older man in the eye. “Hullo, sir,” he said. “We’re just going, so you and Hermione can have a nice…” What was he saying? So they could have a nice cozy chat? Great. He needed to get out more if he was saying that, of all things, to Severus Snape. His chest clenched, making his breath catch. Blinking frantically, he tried again. “We’re just going. We’ll, um, see you later.”

“So, where are you taking me?” Ron’s voice was amused. Harry looked up and realised that he’d dragged Ron halfway across the room in the wrong direction. “I mean-I know you can’t stand the git, but it’s not like you to just run off like this.”

Harry stopped, shook his head and dropped Ron’s arm. “Sorry,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I don’t know what came over me. There really is something I wanted to show you.” He started walking back to the table he and Hermione had been standing near before, and tried to distract Ron by asking about his work.

Half an hour later, Harry was regretting leaving the table at all. Ron’s reaction to Lockhart’s pants had been worth it, but within ten minutes, he’d been accosted by someone he was sure was too big a donor for him to just ditch. Why was it that everyone thought he was just panting to hear about where they were when they first heard about Voldemort’s death? He looked past the overdressed and over-perfumed witch currently buttonholing him and saw Snape, still sitting at the table with Hermione. Snape appeared to be glaring at him and Harry wondered what he was doing wrong now.

“Oh, uh,” he stuttered at the witch, realising suddenly that she’d asked him a question. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch that. And, I’m very sorry,” he stopped for a second at the repetition and then plunged on— “but I think I see the Minister and I really must speak with him.” With a final smile that he hoped didn’t look as fake as it was, he hurried off towards Scrimgeour. And it’s a bad thing, he thought grumpily, when Scrimgeour is the less annoying option.

After extricating himself from Scrimgeour’s clutches without promising anything, Harry staggered back to the table. Hermione was still chatting with Snape, and Ron had brought several plates of different puddings.

“Did you find anything to bid on?” Ron’s voice was muffled by the mouthful of custard he’d just taken.

Harry let his head fall forward to hit the table. He banged it a couple of times, then moaned, “Next time I’m telling my boss I’m not coming. I don’t care what he says he’ll do to me, it’s not worth coming to these things.”

“Am I to understand that you find it difficult to spend time with your ever-so-adoring fans, Potter?” Snape’s voice was sharp and Harry winced. Keeping his eyes closed, he wondered how Snape always managed to find just the right acid tone to slice into him. No matter what he did, no matter how carefully he spoke around the man, Snape never allowed him any slack.

He couldn't figure out why he wanted Snape to be nicer to him, either. He'd spent time wondering about it - both about why Snape seemed so determined to dislike him, and why he found himself trying to be whatever it was that Snape wanted him to be. He knew that Snape was emphatically good, perhaps the best man, morally, that he’d ever met. No one else he knew would have gone through all the hell Snape had for something as ephemeral as The Greater Good. But being Good didn't mean being nice.

To Harry’s surprise, when he lifted his head to try to find a retort that didn’t sound quite as whiny as he wanted to be, Hermione was glaring at Snape. The unexpectedness of it made him stare at her, his mouth wide open, full of the response he’d not yet figured out.

“Catching flies, Potter?”

He snapped his mouth shut with a narrow-eyed glare at Snape, and stood up. “I’m going to find the bidding table. I’m sure there’s something I can use out there.” Why did the blasted man have to always get under his skin like this? Struggling to keep his temper, Harry stormed off.

~*~

Severus watched him go, furious with himself for again saying the thing least likely to make the damned brat see him as anything other than the vicious man he was. He used to know how to be suave; those long evenings spent under Lucius Malfoy’s hateful tutelage had taught him at least the rudiments of manners. Why was it that every time he saw that pretty mouth he lost all control over his tongue?

He sighed. At least the things that popped, all out of his control, from his mouth were spiteful. He didn’t think _he_ would know what to do if he spouted poetry or said that the sight of that pink mouth fluttering open like that made him want to press his own thin, wasted lips against…

He wrenched his gaze away from _his_ retreating back and saw that Hermione was sending him a glare that could peel paint.

On his other side, Ron said, in a companionable tone, “That’s no way to get a bloke to like you, you know.” Scraping up the last of the many treats he’d eaten, the tall red-head stood. “I’m off to find trouble. I’ll stay within our budget.” He grinned at Hermione and loped off.

Severus felt his temper rising again, and turned to match glares with Hermione. “What does your husband mean by that?” He could feel the fear coating every word.

“What, Ron? He’s not as stupid as you always assumed, you know.” She took a breath and Severus used the moment to cringe. “You, on the other hand, seem to be specialising in idiocy. I have heard you say, several times at our flat, that you’d like to be better accepted into society—“

“That is _not_ ,” he began heatedly. “That is not what I said,” he tried again, in a lower tone of voice. “I simply mentioned that it is occasionally uncomfortable for me in Diagon Alley.”

She rolled her eyes at him, and he was reminded of exactly how much younger than he most of his acquaintances were. “Don’t you play coy with me, Severus Snape,” she snapped. “I know exactly what you really meant; did you think I couldn’t translate your constipated Slytherin into common English?”

“You can _not_ mean to imply that I am interested, not that I _am_ interested, you understand, in Ha—in Potter simply because whoever he chooses to be with will be universally accepted.” Severus winced. Was he that obvious? Had _he_ been trying to tell him that there wasn’t any hope of… Severus stood up. “I do understand that he would never be interested in someone like me.” His voice was low. He turned away from the table. “What I feel for him is only a result of the time I was forced to spend taking care of him, watching over him; in any case, and it is clear that he does not feel the same.”

“Sit back down, you great berk,” Hermione said. “You have no idea what happened after you were found, do you? I’ve spent this whole time thinking that you’re just an idiot, when it’s really that you’ve no clue what’s going on with Harry.” She shook her head and laughed.

Severus re-seated himself. He couldn’t walk away from her; he knew the witch well enough to know that she’d be perfectly willing to cause a scene and he didn’t want to draw that kind of attention to himself. He leaned forward, to ensure that she wouldn’t feel it necessary to speak loudly. “Just what is going on with Harry?”

He kept his face still under her long look and then jumped when he heard _his_ voice approaching the table. Severus was amused at the look of frustration that flashed across Hermione’s face. His amusement faded as what he was actually hearing became clear.

“Oh,” Potter’s voice was tentative. He was facing the table, and Severus could only see the back of the person Potter was speaking to. He was a tall brown-haired wizard, with well-cut light-coloured robes. Severus sneered at the frivolity implied in the pink colour. “I am here alone, but… I’m with my friends. I mean—“ Harry slid a hand into his hair and down the back of his head, leaving the hand clenched on the back of his neck. “Really, I’m here with my friends.” He smiled, tightly, then stepped around the man and sat down across from Severus.

Severus opened his mouth, then snapped it closed at the sharp look he felt Hermione shooting him. Taking a deep breath, he sat back, locked his hands together in his lap and tried to keep his temper.

“Another one?” Hermione’s voice was soft. Harry’s hand, still on his neck, tightened, and he nodded. “Have they slowed down at all?”

Harry moaned, and Severus was distracted for a moment. Would the boy make that sound when … He pinched his inner arm and forced his attention back to reality.

“Yeah,” Harry said, “but the ones who are still trying are the ones I really don’t want.” His hand came around and rubbed his chest. “I’m going home. This isn’t worth it. Claspinch will just have to be happy with what I’ve done so far.”

To Severus’ surprise Harry looked exhausted. Hermione had said that there was something going on with Harry; something that she’d thought that he would know about. What it was that he was expected to know and what did that have to do with the emotions that Hermione thought he felt towards Ha— _him?_ Harry stood, still rubbing his chest. The gesture made Severus’ heart clench; the boy looked lost.

“I’ll see you later, then, Hermione.” He smiled at her, then turned to Severus. “Um. Goodbye, sir.” He turned and began trying to work his way through the crowd to the door.

Severus watched him go. He swung around to face Hermione. “That boy is ill. What is he suffering from? Why hasn’t anything been done about it?” His voice was flat and angry.

She glared back at him, her expression just as upset at his. “Don’t you go blaming us for this. It’s your fault, actually.” Her chair was bumped by a passer-by and she tensed. “We can’t really talk about it here. Meet me at my office tomorrow—no, there’s that stupid meeting—I guess you’ll have to come over to the flat tomorrow evening. Seven okay with you?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. She stood up and turned to glance over the crowd. Ron was already on his way back to the table, and Severus was again surprised at how well the two people communicated without words. Wistfully, he wondered if he’d ever have that kind of communication with anyone—that deep a connection.

“I saw Harry,” Ron began, “he looked awful. Did you send him home?” He spoke to Hermione, but his eyes were resting on Severus’ face.

“Severus is coming by tomorrow, around seven,” she said. “We’ll go over everything then.”

Ron nodded, as if that was anything at all like an answer to his question, and held his arm out for his wife. “Then, my dear, let us go.” He grinned down at Hermione’s snicker, and then nodded to Severus. “Tomorrow, then.”

Severus’ eyes followed them, his mind in turmoil. What was wrong with the boy? How on Merlin’s green earth was it his fault? His mind roiling with dark worry, he strode through the crowd, his robes snapping and curling behind him, their edges shifting agitatedly with his thoughts.

~*~

Harry spent the next two days at work in over his head in a tank of water that had been dosed with Mould-Growing potions. Gringott’s had found a storehouse of preserved texts from ancient Rome, but the Dark Wizard who’d had them last had immersed them in water, then booby trapped it. The first curse breaker who’d gone in after the artefacts was in St Mungo’s, having his lungs re-grown after losing almost all of them to the mould.

Harry, laughing under his breath, had gone to Muggle London and bought an aqualung. The mould kept trying to get into the seals of the apparatus, but Harry had thoroughly coated them in Mould-Be-Gone from Molly’s kitchen. While under the water, Harry amused himself with memories of Fourth Year and learning to summon things.

When he came out, artefacts in hand, he handed them off to the goblin waiting for them, and dripped his way back to his office. He stood indecisively in the doorway for a moment and then walked to the front door. Waving at the receptionist goblin, he said, “I’ll be in tomorrow. I have to get this gunk off me.” She nodded back, her long fingers writing quickly on a sheet of what, to Harry’s distress, looked like skin. He shuddered, and left the building through one of the many back doors.

He’d almost made it all the way home, when Snape, of all people, accosted him.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked, looking around them at the Muggle park he’d been walking through to get to his flat. This seemed like the last place Snape would ever go, a Muggle park full of children and pigeons.

Snape, who’d been walking in the other direction, glared down at him. “I am simply passing through this,” he sneered around him, “place on my way somewhere else.” He crossed his arms and eyed Harry. “What have you been bathing in? Whatever it is, I suggest you try a different soap. You reek.”

Harry, still baffled by Snape’s sudden appearance, shook his head. “Not bathing in it. Working in it. And I’m on my way home to wash it off.” He held out one almost dry arm and looked at it ruefully. “I probably should have taken my kit off before I jumped in the tank, but I didn’t think—“

“As if that is a surprise to anyone who knows you.” Snape shifted his weight and uncrossed his arms. “I thought you were working in Gringott’s. Why would you be bathing at work?”

Harry looked at him speculatively. How did Snape know where he worked? Most people, most people who read the Prophet anyway, thought he worked for the Ministry. He’d made sure of that before going to work at the bank. He wanted to keep his life as private as he could. “How do you—never mind. I wasn’t bathing. I was working. I told you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to wash this damned over-active mould off me.”

Snape jerked upright. “Mould? What mould?” He reached out and ran a finger along the shoulder seam of Harry’s robes, not seeming to notice Harry shudder under his touch. “What have those misguided goblins been having you do?”

“Uh, my job?”

“In what way is endangering your life by immersing yourself in mould part of your job?” Snape rubbed his finger against his thumb, bringingt it up to his nose to sniff delicately. Harry shivered at the expression of intense concentration on the other man’s face.

“I am a curse breaker you know.” He looked around. “Can we talk about this somewhere else?”

Snape seemed to realise how public the path they were on was. “I know this potion. I will owl you an antidote for it. You are to shower immediately upon returning to your home, then put the antidote into a hot bath, no lower than 37 degrees, do you understand? Then, immerse yourself, head and all, at least two times in the bathwater. Breathe in the steam for an additional ten minutes. Can you remember that?” His voice had taken on the timbre it used to have in the classroom and Harry found himself repeating the instructions word for word. A moment later, he was alone on the path as Snape moved past him almost too quickly for him to see.

Shaking his head at the odd encounter, he trudged the rest of the way to his flat. Dropping his clothes at the door to his bathroom, he started the shower, then dashed back to the living room to leave a window open for Snape’s owl. He could just hear the curses Snape would send if he didn’t take the antidote.

After his shower, he checked to see if the owl had come. It had, and apparently left again without waiting for a reward. Harry shrugged—Snape’s owl would probably be as irritable as the man himself, no need to worry about feeding it—and picked up the large leather bag left on the table. It was tied with thick black string, and had a terse note reminding him to immerse two times, no fewer. With a grin for his implied inability to count, Harry padded back into the bathroom. Thinking of the difference between Snape, bitter and angry, and his Secret Admirer, Harry sank back into the hot bathwater.

~*~

The next day, Harry found Snape waiting for him in his office. He stopped at the door, trying to think of what he’d done now, then shook his head and walked to his desk.

“Snape,” he began, “what can we do for you here at Gringott’s?” Shoving over the latest stack of paperwork the goblins had inflicted on him, he folded his hands in front of him and waited.

“I require information. I would like to know where you encountered that particular hex, the one that had you sprouting mould in every colour of the rainbow.”

Harry grinned. “It was kind of colourful. I was bright 'as the summer sun at noon’, wasn't I?”

Snape blanched and Harry wondered if something was wrong. He’d quoted the Poem without thinking about it, but there wasn’t anything offensive in the line. He didn’t think he could figure out what was going to offend Snape anyway, and decided to just pretend he hadn’t seen the other man’s anger. One thing he’d learned from Remus, and it had been a hard lesson, was that often just ignoring another person’s anger was enough to make it possible to keep your own temper. He bit down on a grin, thinking that it was good to know that the Marauders, all gone now to that great prank house in the sky, were still able to get under Snape’s skin.

“Anyway,” Harry continued, since it seemed that Snape had been turned to stone, “I’ll get you a sample right away. I’m sure that my boss would love to have your input into the stuff.” He stood, smiling slightly, and left the room.

~*~

Severus staggered into his living room, his face a pasty grey. He’d almost forgotten about that awful night, with the poetry and the Icevodka. Hearing that one line, however, had struck him mute. He thought he hadn’t posted any of it.

Rubbing his face, he slid down into his desk chair and pulled open the bottom drawer. There it was, all the poetry he’d written. He hadn’t been able to burn it, as it deserved. Now, after his conversation with Har—Potter, he had to re-evaluate that. Maybe if he burnt it all now, he could honestly say he … he buried his face in his hands. His knee hit the open drawer and he heard something shift heavily under the parchment. He shoved the parchments back and saw a gold heart the size of a Galleon glinting in the half-light. With slightly shaking hands, he lifted it out. It rested in his palm, warm and heavy.

“How—“ he closed his fingers around the evidence of the spell, not sure if he was trying to hide it from himself or hide himself from it. In his hand, the heart fluttered a little before it resumed a steady, almost imperceptible pulsing. He brought it to his mouth and pressed his lips to the narrow bands worked around it.

Why had he even allowed himself the indulgence of going to see Harry in his office? After the conversation he’d had with Hermione, he’d promised himself he’d never contact the boy again. He had thought that she was mistaken, that her research had, for once, led her to an incorrect assumption. However, if he was writing poetry and posting it …

Clearly his own emotions weren’t under control any more. He could only assume it was the spell.

~*~

Harry leaned back in the booth and watched the swirling crowd. He’d mentioned Snape’s odd behaviour to Hermione the next time he’d gone for dinner. She looked funny, sort of congealed for a moment, then Ron had interrupted with a crack about how could one tell if Snape was acting funny anyway, ‘cause he was always strange. Harry’d seen Ron shoot a sharp look at Hermione then, but he couldn’t figure any of it out.

So here he was, sitting in the window of his favourite Muggle teashop-watching the world go by. He’d brought a book—some Muggle thing about flying in space—but he’d stopped reading it after a few minutes. It was almost Christmas, and everyone out there looked happy. They all had bags and parcels, and were smiling or reading lists and checking off names. Harry wished he had more people to shop for; it was times like this that he most keenly felt the loss of his friends. He’d got a couple of things for Ron and Hermione, sure, and the small gift for the office Secret Santa thing, but really, who did that leave? Neville, of course, and Luna, although really Luna would be fine with something silly and obscure. Molly and the rest of the Weasley clan needed something from him, something that showed how grateful he was that they still cared for him. He knew how hard they’d taken it when he had broken things off with Ginny.

He sighed and curled his fingers around his teacup. There was no Remus, no Arthur, no Albus, although that loss was less acute, somehow, and no Sirius.

Every year now, every single bloody year, he bought something for the person who had helped him. He knew that there had to have been someone, that last awful year had been too coincidentally well run for it to have been just his luck alone. His luck alone would have had him tied up in Devil’s Snare being tormented by Voldemort. He just wished he knew who it was who’d helped him. Whoever it was, they had saved his life several times.

He just wanted to say thank you. He just wanted to show that he knew, even if the whole blasted Wizarding world ignored it, that he hadn’t done all the work alone.

Absently, he rubbed his chest, feeling the familiar tightness. With a hitched breath, he turned back to the book and resolutely tried to concentrate on the antics of some extremely short space ship captain.

An hour later, the book finished, he took a sip from his teacup and made a face. It was cold, which made sense, as he’d been completely sucked in by the book after all. He couldn’t just use his wand—this was a Muggle place. Sighing, he stood up and went to the counter to get a refill.

He settled back into his booth and started to eat the slice of cake he’d got at the counter with his new tea. It was a holiday, and he wanted a treat. After a bite or two, he set the fork down and leaned his head on his fist. Really, it wasn’t just that he missed Remus and Sirius and the others. He wanted to have what he saw at Ron and Hermione’s house, or what was growing between Luna and Neville. Ginny was sweet, but since the last battle, he felt alone even when he was with her.

His chest twinged, as usual when he thought about the horrifying fight at the end of the war. He didn’t actually remember much of what happened at the end, but the bits he did remember well were painful enough. One image that often visited him in dreams was Voldemort’s face, laughing and laughing above him. He could even remember what the old snake had been saying, something about a bound heart and lost princes.

That was when he’d struck; the last Horcrux had been destroyed the night before and the Order was afraid that if they didn’t hurry, Voldemort might try to make another. He’d stood up straight and thought back to what Albus had said, that love was the strongest power. Hermione wanted him to try to love Voldemort, but Harry knew that was ridiculous. So, instead, he’d concentrated his emotions, his love, on the people he cared about most: Ron, Hermione and the mysterious person who’d been helping them. That help had stopped, suddenly, almost a month before, and Harry was nearly sure the silence meant that their ally was dead.

As he finished chanting the spell that would destroy Voldemort, he saw that Voldemort himself was casting something. The two spells crossed in the air, and Harry felt his chest explode with agony. The world turned red, then black. Harry collapsed.

“Are you all right?” a soft voice said.

Harry jerked and gasped. “What?” He turned and saw a young woman standing at the far side of the table. “Oh,” he panted, “yes. Thank you. I, uh, I was just remembering something.” He drew a couple of deep breaths, his chest still tight, and glanced over the woman’s shoulder. There was a tallish man standing at the door looking impatiently at the two of them. “I think your boyfriend’s waiting for you,” Harry said.

She nodded. “Tom’s a nice guy, but we’re in a bit of a hurry. I just… you looked like you were about to have a heart attack.”

“I’m fine. Really. Thanks,” Harry said quickly, then waved at the guy, Tom. “Fine,” he repeated.

She looked dubious, but rejoined her boyfriend. Harry watched them as they crossed in front of the window. Tom had his arm around her and was smiling down at her as she spoke. Harry wished that, just once, he could have someone look at him with that same expression of love.

Standing up to clear his table and go home, he rubbed at the twinge in his chest.

Two days later, he was on his way to meet Hermione at her work before they went to her flat for dinner. He’d left work early to do some shopping, and was well laden down by the time he staggered past the Identification Desk in the Atrium of the Ministry. He couldn’t wait to get to Hermione’s office and drop the bags.

Hermione wasn’t in her office, so he dumped the bags in a corner and began prowling around the room. She always had the most interesting things in her office. Right now her desk was awash in parchment and small pointy things that looked like bits of broken stars. He poked one, watching curiously as it fell over. It just sat there, and he went back to prowling. Just when he was staring out the window, trying to figure out where in the world Maintenance had Hermione’s window looking out onto, a fluttering at the door made him turn.

“Hermione, what city is…” He stopped, mouth wide. It was his crow, the post crow that had brought his poetry. His heart lifted, and he stepped forwards quickly. “Hey,” he said, “what do you have this time?”

The crow landed heavily on Hermione’s desk and glared at him out of its beady eyes. He reached for the letter it was clutching, but it flapped its wings and struck out with its beak. With a caw of irritation, it hunkered down over its letter.

“You fickle bird,” Harry said, “you’re bringing poetry to everyone now? Don’t you care about me any more?”

“Who are you talking to?” Hermione’s voice came around the doorframe just before she did. Smiling at him, she dumped the bundle of baskets she was carrying on the floor near the door. “Oh,” she continued, brightly, seeing the crow, “I’ve been waiting for that information.” The crow lifted off and flew to Hermione’s outstretched arm.

“That’s my crow,” Harry yelped, “the crow that brought me the poem.” He had his hands propped on his hips. “It’s bringing you research now? What kind of post crow is it, anyway?”

Hermione had frozen in the middle of removing the letter from the crow’s leg; her eyes were so wide Harry thought they’d fall out of her head. “Wait,” she said, “this crow brought you the poem?” At her words, the crow jerked against her fingers and she jumped. “Oh, right,” she muttered, and pulled the letter from its knotted string. As soon as she was done, the crow fluttered from the room.

“Yes,” Harry said, “that’s _my_ crow. He brought me—“ he stilled, and glared at her. “Whose crow is that?” His voice was tight.

Hermione turned away from him and sat down at her desk. “Oh Harry,” she sighed, “Why didn’t you tell us it was a crow that brought you the poem?”

“I don’t see what difference it makes if it was a crow or a flying fish, I want to know who that damned beast belongs to!” All he needed now was to find out that it was Snape’s crow or something.

“Harry, please sit down.” Oh, that tone of voice never boded well. Harry sat. “What do you remember about the last spell Voldemort cast, the one he cast just before you killed him?”

Well, that wasn’t the question he was expecting. “Uh. It wasn’t green.” Harry tried to remember more and just came up with a confused image of gold sparks, swirling darkness and incredible chest pain. “It had gold bits, I think. Why? What does this have to do with my poem?”

“Have you heard of Iron Henry?” Hermione wasn’t looking at him; her eyes were fixed on the note the crow had brought for her.

“Who?” He hated feeling stupid like this, but had long ago given up trying to get Hermione to tell a story or give information any faster than she wanted. Any interruptions only slowed the information down and he wanted to know sooner rather than later.

“Iron Henry was the faithful valet of the prince who was transfigured into a frog in the story of the Frog Prince. When his prince was transfigured, Henry bound his heart with three iron bands, to keep it from breaking. Once the prince was freed from his transfiguration, and in the original version the princess had to cast the frog at a stone wall in order to free him from the spell,”—Harry took a moment to be horrified at the image of squashed frog guts and how angry Snape would be at anyone who tried to throw a frog at the wall in his old dungeons—“the bands on Iron Henry’s heart burst open, because the love he felt for his prince overflowed and shattered them.”

Harry blinked slowly. “What does this have to do with my poem? And that crow?”

“There’s a spell that does that—binds hearts, I mean.” Hermione’s voice was unusually quiet. “It’s not well-known, and it’s fairly Dark, but…” She turned in her chair and looked out the window. Wherever it was out there, it was dusk now. “We think that Voldemort, in a last ditch attempt to stop you, was casting that spell, just as you… as you killed him.”

“So you’re saying that my heart has iron bands wrapped around it?” Harry stared at her. “And I have to do what to get them off? Find a prince?”

Hermione eyed him. “You went on ahead of the rest of us, you know. We couldn’t keep up. We have limited information about what actually happened there. When we got to you, we found Voldemort dead, you unconscious and holding a gold heart, and…”

“And what?” Harry was beginning to feel as if he had asked the same question a million times. “What does this have to do with my poem?”

“Didn’t you ever wonder why your chest hurt all the time after you fought with Voldemort? Why you feel alone, even when you're with other people?” Hermione leaned across the desk, her fingertips resting gently on Harry’s arm. “Harry, when you cast that last spell, the one to kill Voldemort, who were you thinking of?”

Harry stared at her, his mouth slightly open. What did that have to do with this? His heart had _bands of iron_ on it and she wanted to know who he’d been thinking of when he killed old snakeface? “Uh. You and Ron.” He glanced away, towards the window, where it was now full dark and there appeared to be six moons in the sky. “And him,” he whispered.

“Him, who?” Hermione’s voice was soft. Gentle.

Harry sucked in a deep breath. “Whoever it was who was helping us so much. We used to hear from him, or her, I suppose, regularly, there would be notes or owls or something. And then, there was nothing. That whole month before we managed to pry the last horcrux out of the foundation of my parents’ house we didn’t hear anything. I knew that Voldemort had killed him.” Harry was surprised to find himself panting. He couldn’t look at Hermione, couldn’t stand to see the expression of pity he knew she’d be wearing. “I didn’t know who else to think about. You told me I had to think about people I really loved, loved in real life, not just as memories.” He scrubbed at his face.

“I buy presents for him every year for Christmas. Did you know that?” He slumped in his chair. “I have them all at home. They’re silly things, things anyone would like, really. I don’t even know enough about him to know what he would have liked for Christmas and he saved my life more times that year than I can count.” He turned to face Hermione, and was surprised to see, not pity, as he had expected, but sorrow. “I’ll never get to meet him. Never get to say thank you.”

The room filled with silence, and Harry watched as the third moon set out the window.

“You love him, don't you, Harry?” Hermione’s voice fell into the silence, echoed off the walls of the room and bounced back, making Harry almost think he was hearing several Hermiones.

“What?” He stared at her. With a deep breath, he said, “Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, that solves it.” Her voice was brisk. “You’re curable.”

“But, you said… the bands…” He rubbed his chest, which had been, oddly enough, pain-free for the entire conversation. “You said that the bands would…” He realised that she _hadn’t_ actually said anything about getting the bands off. “Wait. My heart has to burst in order to get the bands off? I have to die?”

Hermione shook her head, the corners of her mouth quirking up. “I was wondering when you’d get to that. No, Harry. You have to fall in love, or in your case, you have to find the prince you’re already in love with.”

Harry stood up, knocking his chair back. “And how am I supposed to do that? Voldemort killed him. Am I supposed to just find someone and pretend?”

Hermione chuckled, and Harry glared at her. “What happened to the heart we found in your hand, Harry? That’ll help you find your prince.”

Harry blushed. “The crow stole it.” He turned and looked out the window. “Hermione? There are … things out here.”

“What!” Hermione said. “I mean, yes I know about the things out there. Harry, the _crow_ took it? When?”

“When it brought me the poem. So it’s lost. Or whoever the crow belongs to has it.”

“Why don’t we ask him?” She stood and pulled out a parchment and quill, but Harry stopped her hand.

“Shouldn’t I ask? I mean—it’s my heart.” He tried to look sure of himself, but felt his breath shorten. What if this was all some big mistake and he was still cursed, even after he found the heart?

She pulled back and looked at him levelly. “I have a better idea,” she said. “I’ll meet you at your house in an hour. I’ll let myself in; you just go home and set up something for us to eat.” She smiled at him. “This will work out, Harry, I promise.”

Shaking his head at his willingness to go along with such a thin plan, he gathered his bags up and left her office. “An hour?”

She stood behind her desk, her eyes steady. “Just one. I promise, Harry.”

Once home, Harry dropped the bags in the living room. “Dobby?” he called. “Hermione’s coming for dinner tonight. I don’t think Ron is coming, though.” Dobby was in the kitchen, his ears pink and face flushed. “I don’t know how much we’ll be eating. She’s going to tell me about some prince or something.”

Dobby looked up, eyes bright. “A Prince? Oh, Dobby knows what Princes like.” He immediately began clattering about in the cabinets. “Princes like chocolate cake!”

Harry raised his eyebrows at the elf’s oddities, and went to stand in the living room. Now that he was closer to finding out what was wrong and how to fix it, he felt unsettled and fidgety. To give himself something to do, he pulled all the packages out of his bags and set them under the tree. That took just a couple of minutes, so he was left at loose ends again. After an anxious moment, he collapsed into his favourite chair and closed his eyes. He’d just wait.

Sooner than he expected, he heard Hermione’s key in the door. He started to get up, but heard her call out for him to stay sitting. He sat back and tipped his head to watch her. She came into the room, and sat across from him.

“Did he have it? Did the crow keep it?” Harry couldn’t tell from her expression if things were going well or not. She looked so grave.

“Harry,” she said in a low voice, “I want you to close your eyes and listen to me. I think I know the way to break the curse, but you’re going to have to trust me.”

“You know I do,” Harry said. He couldn’t figure out how they could break the curse just with him sitting here, but he’d give it a try. Hermione hadn’t ever been wrong yet. He closed his eyes.

“Harry, try to remember the year before you killed Voldemort. We were hunting the Horcruxes, all over. You remember the notes we’d get—warnings or valuable information or sometimes just encouragement?”

Harry sat up. “Of course I remember. I saved them all. You know that.” There was a soft sound in the doorway, but when Harry turned to look, the doorway was empty. “Oh, Dobby was saying something about chocolate cake, so I hope you’re hungry.”

Hermione tapped his knee. “Harry. You need to be quiet and listen to this. Keep your eyes closed.”

He sighed and put his head back on the chair again. “Sorry.” He didn’t like to remember that year. It was full of misery and worry and pain.

“Now, imagine you’re the spy, the person sending us those notes. He was right there, at Voldemort’s right hand. His information was always important, always something we needed desperately but wouldn’t have been able to find out for ourselves.”

Harry shifted, uncomfortable. He knew all of this; he knew just how much he owed to that person. That was why it hurt so much that he hadn’t been able to save him, thank him. His chest began to hurt again.

“I remember how much you looked forward to getting a note from the spy. You used to light up. You would be happy for days—“ Hermione’s voice was soft.

“I was just glad he was still alive. The first ones didn’t matter so much; but as the year got harder and we started to lose more people, I saw how dangerous things were…” Harry felt tired and he rubbed his chest again.

“When we got the information about the first safe house and managed to get everyone out, I thought about him. I mean, how many Death Eaters do you think knew about that raid, and what if he was tortured because it went wrong and, oh Merlin, Hermione, he died because of me, because of helping me and I can’t stand it. I can’t.” His head tossed from side to side, and his chest felt like it was on fire.

“But the notes kept coming, didn’t they, Harry?” Hermione was gentle, unyielding—implacable.

“They did, and every one meant that he was still alive, but still risking death. I don’t even know who he was,” Harry gasped an inhalation. “I remember him saving me, in Bristol. I had slipped, you were in Headquarters with Ron, and I thought that the patrol would be safe. We stumbled onto a pack of Death Eaters… they were…” He sobbed in a breath and put one hand over his eyes. The other hand was clutched in his shirt, rubbing at his chest. It was burning and throbbing; he felt as if he were going to split open, just crack apart like a pomegranate and spill everything inside himself, staining the hardwood floor with blood red juice and black sorrow.

“McNair had me,” Harry whispered, “He had grabbed my arm. I was struggling—you know Snape was right about my useless wandless magic skills—and someone swept behind McNair. It threw him off balance and I managed to get my wand out.” He gasped in several breaths.

“Then, near the end, he protected me from the others. Remember the attack on Hogsmeade? I nearly stepped out of one of the little back alleys right into Lucius. Someone grabbed me from behind; he turned me around and held me so that his cloak covered me. He told me to just stand still, that he’d tell me when it was safe again. I know it was him, Hermione. That was just before he stopped writing.” He tried to suppress a moan from the pain in his chest. “Hermione, why are you doing this to me? I killed him—you know that. Why are you making me relive this, remember this? Isn’t it enough that I loved him and will never meet him because I _killed him?_ ” His chest pounded, and it almost seemed that he could see it glowing through his closed eyes.

He felt something press against his chest, right over the center of the pain.

“What if I could tell you that he survived? That he’s here right now.” Hermione sounded closer. Harry tried to think around the pain and the misery and guilt but couldn’t. “He’s here, and he is alive.”

“I don’t believe you. If he were alive, wouldn’t he have said something? He spent so much time taking care of me, why would he abandon me if he were still alive?” Harry could barely breathe, his chest felt as if it were being compressed, squeezed until everything inside him shattered.

“But he didn’t abandon you.” Hermione sounded calm and Harry wondered how she could be so calm when he was dying, was cracking in half. “He wrote to you, without even intending to.” Whatever was pressed against his chest suddenly pressed in further; it felt as if it were slipping into his chest, and he cried out in pain.

Suddenly there were warm hands stroking his arms and his face; hands he’d felt only once before but wished for again and again.

“It’s safe now, Harry,” came a voice he’d heard before, in a dark alley, in a classroom, on paper and in poetry. “You are safe now.”

His eyes flew open, and he saw a dark head poised over him. Hermione’s hands were held against his chest, right where he’d felt the thing push in.

“You’re alive,” he whispered, eyes wide. The eyes staring into his shifted anxiously away. “It was you. You were my prince, the one who kept saving me.”

At that, the face contorted and Harry groaned. “Please, don’t leave. I just want to—“ he broke off, as his chest clenched even tighter. “Oh!” He reached out wildly, groping for a hand. “You’re alive. You’re free.” He couldn’t breathe. Severus was backing up—Harry could see that. "Don't leave—my heart—" His heart was breaking. "I have to tell you—" but there was no air—

“I love you,” he gasped, reaching out as far as he could.

And the air was filled with the sound of cracking. Rushing noise filled the room, seeming to stir everything, to make the colours more vivid and the shadows lighter. Harry convulsed, his mouth open in a soundless shriek, his eyes never leaving Severus’, his hands stretched towards his.

The wind roared around the room, pushing at Severus, shoving him further away. With his eyes locked on Harry’s, Severus battled forwards, each step seeming to take an eternity. He reached out as far as he could and slipped his hand into Harry’s.

“I love you, Harry,” he said, and the thieving wind stole the words from his mouth and shattered them against Harry’s chest.

And everything fell silent.

Several hours later, or it might have been minutes, Harry stirred. “I didn’t kill you?”

Severus unwrapped his arms from around Harry enough to be able to look down into his face. “No. No one killed me. I might kill my crow, though. He wasn’t supposed to post that damned Ode.”

Harry grinned into Severus’ chest. “I kind of like him.”

Behind them, Hermione laughed. “I think you two are going to be okay for now. I,” she stood up and stretched, “am going home to my husband.”

Harry stepped away from Severus. “Don’t you want some of the chocolate cake Dobby’s made?” He wasn’t willing to let go of Severus’ hand yet and was pleased that Severus didn’t seem interested in releasing his either.

Hermione smiled at the two of them. “No, but thank you. I have a full day tomorrow, and I think it’s time I got home.” She picked up her bag. “I expect to hear from you both before tomorrow evening, if only to make sure you’ve eaten more than chocolate cake.”

Severus came up behind Harry and wrapped his arms around the shorter man’s chest. “We will endeavour to eat something. I’m certain Harry’s house elf can feed us.”

“Oh, yes,” came Dobby’s excited voice from the other side of the doorway into the kitchen. “Dobby is knowing all about what Princes like to eat.”

**Author's Note:**

> The ode itself is actually written by Schemingreader, based on one by me, but hers is lightyears better than mine, so I'm using hers, with permission. She also wrote this dirty version, just for fun.
> 
> Ode on His Pretty Mouth (dirty)
> 
> Your mouth, the red of heat and lust, brings me  
> To heights of need and want I have not felt  
> Ere I learned to thrust in ecstasy.  
> That mouth, so slack and soft, makes me melt  
> In desire. My hand about my prick,  
> Caresses, pulls and strokes, the way I hope,  
> In vain, to feel you, hot and tight, slide  
> Your round arse down me, so taut, so slick  
> My cock throbs, empties, I cannot cope  
> Without this joy there’s naught but empty pride.


End file.
